


Equal and Opposite

by mataglap



Series: Binary System [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Play, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: The game isn't quite over yet, and several assumptions get confirmed and challenged at the same time.





	Equal and Opposite

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody asked for a sequel, but you'll get it anyway. This is nothing but one hundred percent porn with some feelings sprinkled throughout. I mean it. Nothing else.

Hanzo doesn't object to McCree joining him in the wide shower cubicle. They don't get up to anything, because neither of them is eighteen anymore; McCree's still far, far out in the sea of dopamine-laced contentment and he can only assume that the same applies to Hanzo, even if they don't exchange a word.

He lathers up his hands and slips behind Hanzo, and Hanzo stiffens only momentarily before relaxing with a barely audible sigh. The gorgeous back McCree's spent so many nights thinking about softens under his hands, and he slowly lets his palms glide across the muscles and down Hanzo's spine. It's strangely hypnotizing; Hanzo doesn't say anything, but at some point McCree realizes he's taking way too long and it's starting to feel like _worship,_ and he pulls away abruptly, taking a step back into the spray.

Hanzo stands still for a moment, looking down at the tiles, before reaching for the soap dispenser and turning briskly towards McCree, finger drawing a commanding loop in the air: _turn around_.

All of this is… strange. Nice, yes, but strange. McCree's so used to their little game, the relentless teasing and occasional mockery, that this quiet truce makes him feel uneasy. He's weirdly relieved when Hanzo marches out of the bathroom immediately after he's done with the shower, wet and naked, dripping water from his hair all over the floor, to pick up the phone and negotiate an out-of-hours laundry collection.

McCree takes his time toweling off and combing his hair into order, and when he leaves the bathroom with a towel modestly knotted around his hips and another one in hand, he catches the laundry bag a split second before it hits him in the face.

"We might as well wash all of our clothes," Hanzo says. "I don't plan on leaving this room until tomorrow, at the very earliest."

And there's that goddamn smug smirk again.

"Can't imagine what you might be plannin' instead," McCree deadpans, retaliating by throwing the dry towel at Hanzo's head. "I was thinkin' 'bout goin' out to see the Sagrada Família, myself."

"Were you," says Hanzo mildly. It's not even a question, and something hot lights up in McCree's stomach.

"Damn right I was. Gaudí was a visionary and I ain't leavin' this city without seein' his work. You wanna cover your junk, or are you gonna flash the poor unsuspecting laundry maid?"

"She's not here yet, is she?" Hanzo asks rhetorically, toweling his hair and making zero attempts to cover himself. McCree's pretty sure he's doing it on purpose, because that pose displays _everything,_ in such a way that he can feel his refractory period shortening by the second, so naturally he walks right past Hanzo, towards his duffel, and starts loading up the laundry bag.

"I'm not washing all my stuff either way," he says. "But I'm looking forward to when Talon susses us out and you have to blow the joint bare-ass naked."

There's a moment of contemplative silence. "You have a point," Hanzo finally says. "Although after the fiasco earlier today, I can't say I'm too worried about Talon."

"Rather be prepared all the same," McCree mutters, because this particular branch of Talon might be cartoonishly incompetent, but he knows very well what the people at the top are capable of.

There's a knock on the door as he's sniffing two of his shirts, trying to decide which one to keep. Hanzo, now sat on the edge of his bed and combing his hair, still in his birthday suit, only arches an eyebrow in his direction, clearly not planning to move. McCree grinds his teeth a bit and hurriedly pulls on a pair of sweatpants. Hanzo's laundry bag is hanging from the doorknob already, neatly fastened, and rationally, McCree knows that Hanzo's bed isn't visible from this spot, but he glances back to check anyway before opening the door.

The maid accepts both bags with a pretty smile, asks if they need anything else and, after McCree's warm assurance that they're fine 'n dandy, she leaves blessedly untraumatized.

McCree double-checks that the 'Do Not Disturb' sign is still in place before closing the door.

"You really plannin' to spend the whole day in the buff?" he asks and immediately wishes he could retract the question, because he doesn't mind, not in the slightest, he's absolutely prepared to absorb this glorious sight for the rest of the day.

Hanzo's tying his hair back up now, in quick, practiced movements; he pats the finished bun and looks up, and something about that look makes McCree's mouth go dry. "I don't see the point of getting dressed if I'm going to end up in need of a shower again in an hour," he replies calmly.

And doesn't that send a shot of heat right through McCree's abdomen. Damn. He maintains the poker face, because apparently, somehow, the game is still on, silently tells his dick to calm the fuck down and meets Hanzo's eyes.

"That so?"

"Unless I'm overestimating your stamina, in which case make that half an hour," Hanzo adds with a perfectly straight face, although when McCree snorts with surprised laughter, his mouth twitches in a clearly involuntary smile.

"Well, if you're feelin' _that_ lucky, then I'm afraid you're gonna have to get dressed, darlin'," drawls McCree, "'cause I ain't got anything and I'm not going shopping alone."

Hanzo leans back, reaches across the bed -- the resulting pose makes him look like an honest-to-God Renaissance sculpture, a fact he's undoubtedly aware of — and slides the drawer of his nightstand open.

"Really," McCree says flatly at the sight of the plastic bag dangling demonstratively from Hanzo's finger, although he's not sure why he's even surprised.

Hanzo drops the bag and straightens back up without bothering to close the drawer. "I told you I had planned for this," he says with a sudden smirk that borders on a grin.

The smirk instantly activates the part of McCree that would cut off his nose to spite his face.

"Awfully presumptuous of you," he drawls, even though he knows he's full of shit, because not only the thought of Hanzo buying lube and rubbers for him, for _them_ , is mind-numbingly hot, but he can also _feel_ himself reacting to the sight and the inevitable thoughts of possibilities that follow.

Hanzo raises his eyebrows, still smiling and infuriatingly self-assured. "I thought we've already established that my assumptions were correct?"

"Your assumptions are also really fuckin' annoying," McCree informs him, folding his arms. "Fair warning, if you piss me off enough, I _will_ leave and go sightseein' instead, blue balls or not."

"That will leave me alone in a room with a comfortable bed, lube and a lot of free time," Hanzo retorts immediately. "I don't think I will be the loser in that scenario."

It's a low blow. The mental image immediately sweeps away all traces of McCree's budding irritation and leaves behind nothing but heat, but Hanzo clearly misinterprets the grind of his jaw, because his body language changes: he pulls up his legs and sits crosslegged on the bed, hands folded almost primly in his lap and obscuring all the best sights, the smugness and the challenge all but gone.

 _Congratulations, you played yourself_ , says a voice in the back of McCree's head that sounds disturbingly like Reyes.

"I believe you," Hanzo says slowly. "I will not try to stop you if you leave, but" — he pauses almost imperceptibly — "I admit I will be somewhat disappointed."

And just like that, McCree's disarmed so completely he can't even muster a glare. He covers it with a grin and cocks his hip. "Really? Anything in particular you been countin' on?"

"Well." Hanzo's shoulders relax and he smirks again, immediately right back to smug, and McCree's honestly not sure anymore who's being played here and by whom, but he doesn't like his odds. "I thought about seeing if I can make you get properly loud the next time."

"Did you now," he says, resisting the urge to adjust himself where he's about to start tenting his pants.

"Yes. You were way too quiet for my liking. I'm sure you could do better if sufficiently motivated."

There's the arrogant prince again, spine straight and chin high, activating every contrary bone in McCree's body.

"…But if you have other ideas, I am also open to suggestions," Hanzo adds charitably, as if he's offering McCree a favor.

McCree unclenches his jaw with some difficulty and decides: fuck it. "I did have other things in mind, as a matter of fact," he says, staring Hanzo down, hoping he'll take the bait.

Hanzo tilts his head, eyebrows raised slightly. "Such as?"

"Such as putting you on your knees and fucking your mouth," he drawls, watching Hanzo's face closely. "I've been wonderin' if you'd still manage to pull off the royal look with a mouthful of cock. Or tying your hands behind your back and spreading you out on the bed and fucking you nice 'n slow, until you start beggin' for it. That is also an option I gave a fair amount of thought."

Hanzo, to his credit, doesn't even blink, but McCree knows what to look for: a briefly paused breath, a bob of Adam's apple, a shift of the jaw. He's not entirely unaffected. _Gotcha_.

"I can't help but notice a theme to your fantasies," Hanzo says after a few long seconds, voice calm and airy as if he's discussing the weather.

McCree's next breath comes a bit short: Hanzo didn't get angry, and he didn't immediately say 'no' either.

"What can I say?" he says as offhandedly as he can manage with all the remaining blood in his body rushing south. "You can be really goddamned bossy, and it makes me wanna boss you around a bit in return. Maintain a healthy balance to our interactions. Even out the playin' field, as it were."

Hanzo mouth does something strange, as if he wanted to bite his lip and stopped himself at the last moment.

"What would you tie my hands with?" he asks lightly.

McCree's stomach twists hotly, because boy, did he _ever_ think about this particular detail. He walks over to the duffel, fishes out his belt and shows it to Hanzo without a word. Hanzo looks at the belt, then back at him, face betraying no emotion, and McCree genuinely has no idea whether he's going to get punched or tied up himself or maybe just chucked out of the window, but hey, Hanzo _did_ ask, so he just grins and waits.

By now, the tent in his sweatpants is probably visible from space.

He doesn't take a step back when Hanzo stands up abruptly and stalks closer, but his lungs do something funny, because now that Hanzo's not sitting in a way that conveniently hides his junk, it's clear he's just as affected as McCree. Maybe even more. And of course his dick is just as perfect as the rest of his body, nestled in a dark thatch of hair — is it _trimmed_? — and beautifully curved, and for all the shit he's been talking, McCree's about fucking ready to drop to his knees.

But he doesn't, because Hanzo stops in front of him, chest to chest, looks straight into his eyes, intense and weirdly scrutinizing, then reaches up, coaxes him to lean in and kisses him, deep and hard. McCree's dick bumps against Hanzo's hip through the material of his sweatpants and he opens his eyes, ready to remove the obstacle immediately, but Hanzo breaks the kiss first, takes a step back and turns around, and crosses his wrists behind his back, hands balled into loose fists, and McCree wonders faintly if it's possible to lose consciousness from sheer arousal because he suddenly feels like he's about to.

"You sure?" he asks instead when he's able to find his voice, because a bit of grinding in a chair is one thing, but this is a lot more than that —

"No, I'm suffering from a brief lapse in judgement," Hanzo replies without turning his head.

"Hanzo —"

"You have ten seconds, after which I will use that belt on _you_ ," Hanzo threatens, in the exact arrogant tone of voice that sets McCree off every time, and he's roughly tightening the loop around Hanzo's wrists before he makes the conscious decision to. It's a shitty loop, because a leather belt, even as soft and worn as this, doesn't make for a good restraint, especially when he doesn't want to inflict any harm — but Hanzo tests it only once and his arms relax again, even though he could probably get rid of it in ten seconds if he tried.

McCree pulls Hanzo against him, runs a hand from his neck down to his treasure trail, scratches his nails lightly through the hair just above his dick, careful not to touch. It's definitely trimmed. And Hanzo twitches, both his body and his pretty dick, straining right below McCree's hand and radiating warmth which McCree can feel on the backs of his fingers, and he doesn't know what this alternate reality they suddenly found themselves in is and how the fuck they got here, but he wants to stay here forever, here where Hanzo actively _wants_ him to do this.

He withdraws the hand and nudges Hanzo towards the bed.

"On your stomach," he says, and it occurs to him that it would have been wiser to tie Hanzo's hands after, not before getting him onto the bed, but of course Hanzo's a ninja, and all it takes is a twist and a roll that has no right to be as graceful as it is.

"I hope you're not going to just stand there and look," Hanzo mumbles into the pillow.

McCree carefully pulls the pillow out from under his face and tosses it to the side, letting him breathe. "Maybe I am," he says, voice stupidly rough because he's dying to touch. Judging by the way the corner of Hanzo's mouth twists in a smirk again, he's not fooling anyone.

"I'll just have to work with what I have, then," Hanzo replies, clearly aiming for arrogant again but falling a bit short with how breathy he sounds, and he flexes his hips, rubbing himself against the sheets.

That kicks McCree out of the horny stupor so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. He all but jumps out of the sweatpants and walks to the open drawer to examine Hanzo's spoils of war. A bottle of fancy lube and two boxes of equally fancy condoms, different sizes: Hanzo really did plan for every eventuality. He leaves the lube and one condom within reach and lies down next to Hanzo, strokes the short bristles on the back of his head, his neck, the muscles of his back and his sides, the backs of his thighs and, finally, the delicate skin on the bottom of his ass; Hanzo hisses and jerks at that, so McCree pins his legs to the bed with a thigh and keeps touching, half-hypnotized, until Hanzo starts flexing under his hands and tossing his head impatiently, and making small, frustrated sounds.

"I'm not going to beg for it, if that's what you're aiming for," he finally says, and breaks off in a gasp that is perilously close to a moan when McCree squeezes one cheek and pushes it aside, runs a thumb from his tailbone all the way to his balls.

"We'll see about that," McCree answers, reaching for the fancy lube, because that definitely sounded like a challenge.

It's nice stuff, silkier and slicker than what he's used to. He's got no patience left to warm it up, but he's pretty sure Hanzo can deal, judging by the way his whole body twists and seizes at the first touch, and by how his tied-up hands flex convulsively at his back. He scoots closer, supports himself with a forearm next to Hanzo's head, leans over him and kisses the back of his neck, his temple and his shoulder, working him open as carefully as he can, which is not a lot, because he's about to explode or go mad with the way Hanzo's whole body reacts to every shift of his fingers.

"Did you think about this?" he murmurs into Hanzo's ear, half-drunk on this already.

Hanzo fucking _laughs_ , chuckling softly into the sheets. "Obviously."

"Don't sass me," he warns, punctuating it with a stab of fingers, and Hanzo gasps. "I'm talking about this. Specifically."

He doesn't get an answer, so he starts pulling his hand away, and Hanzo makes a sound that's going to fucking haunt his dreams.

"Yes," he hisses.

McCree slips the fingers back where they belong, can't control the involuntary jerk of his own hips when Hanzo outright groans at that.

"Tell me."

Hanzo briefly pushes his face into the mattress, then turns his head to glare at McCree out of the corner of his eye. The flush is back across his cheekbones, in strange contrast with that murderous glower.

"Tell me," McCree repeats, suddenly desperate to know, and cranes his neck to kiss the corner of Hanzo's mouth. "Please."

"Fine," Hanzo snaps. "I thought about you. Above me, like this. Inside me. Holding me down. Are you happy now?"

McCree shudders, sucking in a shaky breath. "I thought about it, too," he admits, twisting his fingers, drinking in Hanzo's gasp. "More than once. Was a lot less gentle in my imagination, though."

"Same," Hanzo says on an exhale, half a laugh and half a gasp, and suddenly McCree can't wait anymore, this will have to do, he roughly wipes wet fingers on the sheets and grabs the condom, and fumbles with the fucking wrapper for a small eternity before he manages to get it on. He crawls over Hanzo, slips the left arm under his chest and guides himself close, listens to Hanzo's quick, shallow breath and gives him the slightest nudge, and waits.

Hanzo does the half-laugh, half-gasp again. "Fuck you," he rasps, tensing, straining to chase the touch. "I said I won't beg."

McCree applies every ounce of his mass to keep him pinned; the hands under his ribs spasm again, and this time Hanzo's laugh sounds more like a sob. "I'm a patient man," he lies straight into Hanzo's ear, nudging again, a little further this time.

"I will kill you if you don't fuck me right now," Hanzo growls in reply. "I swear —"

It takes everything he's got to stop just after he breaches Hanzo's body, and he has to bite his own bicep to control himself, but it's worth it: Hanzo thrashes under him and threatens, hoarsely demanding more, until he finally breaks. "Fucking _please_ ," he sobs out, and McCree closes his eyes, tightens the grip around his chest and slides all the way in.

There is no stopping after that, not when Hanzo lets go completely and becomes shamelessly loud. McCree plasters himself to his back, wraps both arms around him the best he can and drowns in the pleasure, both Hanzo's and his own, until it builds up to something terrifying in its intensity; he frees his right hand and slips it under Hanzo's hips, and he can't do much in this position, but just the touch of his fingers turns out to be enough. He fumbles with the other hand to turn Hanzo's face towards him and kiss him, just in time to capture most of the sounds he makes as he falls apart, and then he has to smother his own noises against Hanzo's skin because he's afraid he's going to shout. He doesn't. He sobs out his orgasm into the the back of Hanzo's neck instead, overwhelmed and shaking, and Hanzo may be the one tied up and pinned down, but it's McCree who feels the most defenseless he's been in his life.

* * *

He frees Hanzo's wrists with clumsy fingers as soon as he's able to think straight again. Hanzo has turned into barely responsive jelly and replies to questions about his wellbeing with nothing but a vague hum, so after brief deliberation McCree just fucking goes for it, pulls him out of the wet spot and spoons the hell out of him, stroking the black hair that came partially loose of its tie and holding him close with the other arm. It takes a few minutes before Hanzo sighs deeply and wriggles, and when McCree lets go, he turns around and flops a heavy arm across his waist. Something in McCree's chest clenches at the sight of the redness around his eyes that definitely wasn't there before.

"I will kill you for that, as I promised," Hanzo mutters, "as soon as I can properly move," and he buries his face in McCree's neck and stops moving altogether.

McCree had no idea that threats of imminent murder could be fucking _cute_ , and for a moment he doesn't know what to do with himself. He's high as a kite on dopamine and his heart is suddenly lodged somewhere in his throat, and he's got just enough clarity left to know that doing anything in this state carries a high risk of Bad Decisions, so he settles on pulling Hanzo closer and resting his chin against the top of his head, and definitely _not_ opening his mouth until the haze passes and he's sure something dumb won't fall out.

He's just started dozing off when Hanzo squirms again, with a complaint about excessive body heat muffled against his neck. McCree can't exactly do anything about it apart from letting go, which he feels strangely unwilling to do, but the decision is taken out of his hands: Hanzo slips out of the embrace like an eel, and he's off the bed five seconds later.

"Shower," he demands, prodding at McCree's shoulder.

"Can't," McCree mumbles. "Legs ain't checked in yet. Gimme five minutes."

He closes his eyes for just a moment — and jumps, swearing, when a trickle of cold water lands on his overheated skin.

"Get up and shower," Hanzo says, wringing his goddamn hair right above him with a smirk. "Sagrada Família closes at seven."

  



End file.
